


Bad Blood (Coda Remix)

by reneewvlkers



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, Remix Redux, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reneewvlkers/pseuds/reneewvlkers
Summary: Neil's a reforming criminal trying to help put his father's men behind bars. It's a pity the team he's working with is led by someone who doesn't know shit.(A prequel to pretty toys and cold-blooded killers for the aftg remix)





	Bad Blood (Coda Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badacts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/gifts).
  * Inspired by [pretty toys and cold-blood killers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10435434) by [badacts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts). 



> It's immediately terrifying to try and remix anything Bee has ever written because I love what she does and I don't want to change a word of it. But here's my attempt at a scene from before her [pretty toys and cold-blooded killers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10435434) spy au!
> 
> Thanks as always to my betas, nooly and lex, who saved my ass by beta-ing this the day before the deadline instead of, like, doing something fun in the limited time we had together.

“It wasn’t a _choice,_ ” Neil spits through clenched teeth and the taste of copper. “You think I’d be working for you if I’d gotten a choice about any of this?” He locks eyes with Kevin, daring him to continue criticising his work. Neil has to do well in this, or it’s game over. The law only protects its villains for so long.

“I don’t think you could stop lying if you tried,” Andrew says, his blank voice somehow still dripping with contempt. “It’s the perfect fit.”

“You can try to take the high road as much as you want,” Neil turns his head the minute amount it takes to refocus on Andrew. “But we all know that you’ve chosen this life time and time again. No one’s forcing you to be here. Stop acting like a fucking victim who’s so unlucky to be here and have some self respect.”

Andrew’s eyes flicker with something like amusement, but he doesn’t speak.

“No matter how many temper tantrums you throw, Josten,” Kevin says, with emphasis on Neil’s newly assigned surname, “It doesn’t change the fact that it’s your job to investigate. You will be going into that club and that’s the end of it.”

“It’s my job because I don’t want to die at the hands of the same men that killed my mother. Walking into that club and telling them I’m Wesninski’s son is the best way to do that.”

Kevin opens his mouth to interrupt. “No. I’m here to give you the benefit of my experience,” Neil cuts him off. “So you’ll listen to me. You don’t know the full story. This is a bad plan and it’ll get me killed, it’ll get you killed, and then probably a few others killed, just for good measure. You can order me to go where you like but I’m not doing it.”

Neil keeps eye contact with Kevin until the other man yields, sighing and closing his eyes tightly like he’s dealing with a bratty teen. “Then what, exactly, do you suggest we do? Romero is a ghost, and he’s here. We need to get information from him tonight.”

“Lucky for you, I know how they work,” Neil says, reminding Kevin of the reason he distrusted Neil in the first place. He’s been behind the scenes of his father’s business since before he could walk. “Romero’s an idiot. You play a few games, buy him a few drinks, and he thinks you’re his new best friend. The problem is Jackson. He knows Romero, and he keeps him out of trouble.”

Kevin gestures impatiently for Neil to get to the point. It’s almost funny - since Neil joined the team, they’ve been begging him for more information on Nathan’s men, and as soon as Neil opens up, he’s hurried along. “How much cash have you got on you?”

“Cash?” Kevin asks. For an FBI agent, he’s really not good at following the trail of a conversation.

“Cash,” Neil replies.

Kevin blinks once, twice, then pulls out his wallet like it’s a great hardship. He pulls out a pristine twenty dollar note and two quarters.

Neil rolls his eyes then turns to Andrew, who opens a drawer and pulls out a small plastic bag full of change. “Play classic rock on the jukebox, and when Jackson comes over, ask him to play whatever shitty arcade games there are. He’s nostalgic. Makes him receptive.” Neil puts the bag in Kevin’s hand.

“I thought Romero would recognise you,” Kevin says, voice dripping with as much sarcasm as he can muster. (It’s not much.) “Who’s going to get the information out of him?”

Neil looks at Kevin for one extra second then points to Andrew.

“No,” Kevin says immediately. “Andrew is back-up, always. He doesn’t go in on missions.”

“Why not?” Neil says. He knows why, theoretically; there’d been an ‘incident’ last time Andrew had a mission. Apparently he gets violent. The others seemed to believe this arose without provocation, but the fact that Wymack kept him on the team indicated to Neil that couldn’t be the case.

“He-” Kevin lets out a frustrated breath, darting a look to Andrew, who barely seems invested in the conversation. “We all have a role in this team. Andrew’s not going in.”

“What, he’s been forbidden from ever leaving the van?” Neil shakes his head. “I know for a fact that Andrew can bluff better than you. And your skills absolutely do not lie in interrogation.”

“I can play poker,” Kevin protests, and it may be true. “And you only have one example of my interrogation.” That’s true, but Kevin had tried to interrogate Neil. It wasn’t until Wymack had come in and cut a deal with Neil that he’d even opened his mouth to do anything but yawn.

Neil turns to Andrew. “Have you ever played Bullshit?”

Andrew returns a curt nod.

“That’s Romero’s game of choice. Get a drink at the bar, sit for a while, then join his game. You know the rest.”

Andrew’s face stays passive, but in that blank slate is acceptance. Kevin, however, splutters, unwilling to let Neil take control. “This all relies on chance. You have no guarantee this will work at all.”

“You just said you play poker,” Neil says, letting the hints of a smirk lift the edges of his mouth. “It may be a game of chance, but in the end it just comes down to skill.”

* * *

There’s something satisfying to being sat in the van monitoring Andrew’s actions rather than putting himself in direct danger for once. Kevin glowering next to him only makes it sweeter.

“Okay, Romero’s at the table second from the bar wearing the leather jacket. Jackson’s to his left. Don’t even look at them, just sit at the bar and get a drink. Something you can sip for a while.” Andrew sits, making hard eye contact with one of the cameras behind the bar for a few seconds before waving down the bartender. “Right. Micro-managing. Sorry,” Neil appends.

He leans back. Now’s a waiting game; making just enough of a presence that the other patrons will know Andrew has been there for a while before Kevin enters, but not enough that he’s obvious. That’s a role Neil knows Andrew can play with no guidance. He has a strange talent for making himself into a part of the furniture, so you only realise that he’s been there all along when he makes it known.

So Neil leans back and pulls up Candy Crush on his phone.

“Neil,” Kevin admonishes sharply.

“Yeah?”

“We’re supposed to be watching over Andrew, not- whatever you’re doing.”

“I am watching over him,” Neil says, gesturing to the grainy camera feeds on the screen. “He’s in a bar, getting a drink and watching the baseball game. He’s not about to be murdered.”

“Then you need to be watching the targets. What if Romero gets up?”

“He won’t,” Neil replies. He matches four and his phone sings.

Kevin’s face tightens further. Neil hadn’t thought it was possible to scrunch his face up more than it naturally was. “We can’t know that-”

“I thought I was here for my expertise,” Neil says, casually cutting Kevin off in a way he knows Kevin hates. “It’s not even ten. They’re not leaving for hours.”

“You can’t _know_ that.”

Neil fixes him a glance. “Have you ever been to a bar in your life? Or ever, I don’t know, known someone long enough to know their habits? They’re not leaving for a while.”

“People are unpredictable, that’s the whole point of this job. If we know exactly what someone’s going to do, then we wouldn’t need to stake them out to find out their plans,” Kevin says with obvious relish. He sounds like he’s reciting from a textbook.

“Romero’s drinks are on a tab. Jackson’s phone is plugged into the wall. That other guy at the table just ordered food. And, actually, Romero’s been eyeing up the board game collection. They’re not leaving for a while,” Neil says, and he doesn’t take his eyes off his phone screen.

Kevin folds his arms, reluctantly conceding defeat, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the camera feeds. Fine. Not Neil’s responsibility to teach Kevin how to have fun.

Twenty minutes pass, and Andrew’s nearing the bottom of his bottle. Whatever team he’s pretending to follow are about to lose their game. Neil turns to Kevin, who’s been fighting a yawn for the past seventeen minutes, and says, “Alright, you’re up.”

“I still think you should go-”

“The plan isn’t changing.” Neil looks Kevin up and down, “But you might have to.”

“What?”

“You look like an FBI agent.” He’s wearing a full three-piece suit to a stake out.

“I am an FBI agent,” Kevin says, in a way that’s probably supposed to sound withering.

“Yeah, no shit,” Neil replies. “I don’t think you want them to know that, though,” he says, nodding his head to the screen.

Kevin nods slowly. “I said you should go in.”

Neil raises his eyebrows. “It’s easy enough to change your clothes. Take off your jacket.”

Reluctantly, Kevin does so. He folds in carefully and places it on the chair Andrew vacated. It doesn’t do much to change the image. “Okay, unbutton your shirt a bit.” Kevin undoes the top button - the actual top button, because he’s one of the people who doesn’t mind feeling choked all day - with his face set in grim acceptance. “Yeah, more than that. A couple of buttons. We’re going business casual here, not ‘being here is an assignment I never wanted to be on’.”

“Ha ha,” Kevin says as sarcastically as he can manage, but Neil thinks he sees real pain in his eyes as he undoes the third button.

“Yeah, whatever, that’ll do. Stand up.”

It feels useless. Kevin obviously gets his clothes tailored to him - even unbuttoned, he looks like some kind of male model. He wouldn’t fit in even if he were absolutely wasted. Neil sighs and stands up, reaching as high as he can to mess with Kevin’s hair. “What are you-”

“Trying to make you look like you have less of a stick up your ass,” Neil replies. Unfortunately, Kevin’s hair doesn’t shift. He probably wakes up with his hair perfect - which, in this case, is the opposite of perfect. He shakes his head, then starts unbuttoning Kevin’s shirt further.

“Woah, what-?” Kevin starts pushing Neil away.

“You don’t have a single crease in your shirt that wasn’t ironed in. If you’re going to look like an uppity businessman, at least make it look like you’ve had a bad day and are going into a dive bar to drown your sorrows,” he finishes unbuttoning the shirt. “Take it off.”

From Kevin’s obvious discomfort, you’d think he’d never changed in front of another human being before. But he gives Neil the shirt. Neil promptly crumples it into as tight of a ball as he can and holds it there for a few seconds.

Kevin almost looks on the brink of panic. “Hey, that’s a good look. You look like your wife is threatening to divorce you for your last penny.” Neil unfurls the shirt, then crumples it again. He gets a subtle hint of Kevin’s expensive cologne, and shakes his head. “I’ll be right back. Watch Andrew,” he says, and jumps out of the van.

“What-” he hears Kevin splutter before he shuts the door. There’s an independently owned drug store around the back which Neil is sure sells the cheap deodorant brands he’s thinking of. On the way back, he drops the shirt on the ground. It’s too dark to see, so he may have rubbed it against the asphalt a bit. It’s hard to say.

Neil gets back in the van, and Kevin’s stood exactly where he was left, with just his head tilted towards the screen. Neil resists the urge to pat him on the head and call him a good boy. He gets the feeling that would be pushing Kevin just a bit too far.

“Okay,” he says, and holds the shirt out. “Put it on.” It’s crumpled, and there’s a shadow that might be dirt on it, but still clear this is an expensive shirt - just that this is an expensive shirt Kevin might have been wearing for a couple of days now. Neil uncaps the deodorant and sprays it over Kevin until he’s fighting the urge to cough.

“What are you doing?” Kevin says as soon as it’s safe to breathe again.

“The poor man’s shower,” Neil says proudly. “You needed a reason to be in a dive bar rather than some bougie wine bar.”

Kevin sniffs, and his face sours. God, he really had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Neil offers him an ear piece. “Get in there. Order whatever you want. Maybe splash some on yourself if you want to give the authentic mid-life crisis vibe. Then play Mr Nostalgia at the jukebox. Got it?”

Kevin meets Neil’s eyes with a dead look, then he procures a bottle of vodka from a cabinet Neil hadn’t seen. He throws back a shot without hesitation, then carefully dabs some onto his shirt with obvious distaste. He places the bottle down and heads out of the van and into the bar.

“Kevin’s coming in,” Neil says to Andrew as soon as he can get to the microphone. Then he mutes his phone. The Candy Crush music is almost as infuriating to him as it was to Kevin.

Andrew registers Kevin as he walks through the door, but then Kevin’s arrival was never going to be anything but loud. Kevin walks to the bar, looking almost horrified but mostly haughty as he hails the bartender. “Vodka on the rocks,” he says. “And open a tab.”

“What kind?” The bartender asks, leaning back from the smell of deodorant.

Kevin’s face curls up in a slight grimace before he says, “Whatever’s cheapest.”

Maybe he isn’t as awful at this job as he’d seemed.

Kevin gets his drink, and he sits at the bar six stools down from Andrew, and another patron between them. Kevin starts to sip at his drink resentfully, and he asks the other patron about the game before professing his lack of interest. By this point, everyone in the bar is trying their best to ignore him; just another sob story waiting to be kicked back out onto the streets.

Andrew orders another drink, and after only two sips, his team loses their game. He sighs, and the bartender offers his commiserations, along with something stronger. Andrew declines, “for now”, then turns around to see Romero shuffling cards.

Romero nods him over. “Interested in a game?”

“Why not? See if I can get a win out of tonight after all,” Andrew remarks drily, taking a spare seat at their table. “What’s the game?”

“Bullshit,” Romero says, eyes glinting just hard enough to constitute a challenge.

Andrew pauses, then nods. “Not what I was expecting, but count me in.”

“You got a problem with Bullshit?”

“The game?” Andrew’s mouth quirks, and Neil realises Andrew can blend in just fine when he actually tries to. “None at all. Just that douches in bars always try to play it tough with poker, or another game they don’t know how to play.”

Romero barks out a laugh. “True enough. The rest of you in?”

Romero’s associates agree, some more reluctantly than others. It’s pretty clear that Andrew has this completely under control, whatever Kevin’s opinion of Andrew’s capabilities was. Neil has no advice to offer Andrew, who requests a brief refresher of the rules from Romero before settling into the game - “A warm-up,” Romero assures him with the amusement of someone who suspects an easy win, “We won’t start betting until you know what you’re doing.”

Meanwhile, at the bar Kevin is engaging a reluctant bartender in meaningless conversation. He is nursing his second glass.

Neil has known for years that stake outs take a lot of waiting. That’s not a problem for him, though - being part of the groups that usually require _being_ staked out means that for his first twenty years, he hadn’t ever really stopped for a significant amount of time. An unexpected benefit of being one of the ‘good guys’ now is the ludicrous amount of down time on the job. Just sitting still is something to savour. Boredom is a luxury. Neil is content to bask in it.

Andrew loses his warm-up game, then loses a cautious bet on the first ‘real’ game. They’re a few rounds into the next game, and Andrew is doing a touch better. Neil looks back at Kevin, “Finish your drink and get something bigger. Time to discover the jukebox.”

Kevin drains his drink and smacks it on the counter as a new song starts - one even Neil can recognise. Most of the music in the bar fits Romero’s tastes, but there’s no music selection a few quarters in a jukebox can’t improve. “ _Damn_ , I love this song,” Kevin says emphatically. “They don’t make music like this anymore.”

The bartender murmurs an affirmative, but quickly shifts into business mode. Anything to get away from the clearly buzzed midlife crisis in front of him. “Would you like another?”

“Something different this time, I think. What’s he drinking?” Kevin points to the bottle in the hands of the man two seats down from him. “I want that.”

The bartender provides the name of the beer, then hurries away to get it. Kevin’s attention no longer occupied by a drink or an unwilling conversation partner, his eyes scan the room until they land on an old jukebox in a corner. He accepts his beer without even looking at the bartender and makes a beeline for the jukebox.

He takes his time to flick through the selections, and the response to each song is clear on his face to anyone who would look. Finally, he makes a selection and fumbles a couple of quarters out of his pocket and into the old machine and bobs his head to the rhythm with an expression that almost looks happy. Probably as close as Kevin can muster, anyway.

A few songs later, Andrew knocks Jackson out of the game of Bullshit a few rounds in. “Come on,” Romero says to Jackson, eyes bright. “I thought you’d be better at this game by now. How many times have we played?”

“Exactly,” Jackson says sharply. He’d never been a graceful loser. “We play this game so fucking much, I’m long since sick of it.” He pushes away from the table and heads to the bar.

“Aw, come on, Jack!” Romero cackles at his friend’s back, but doesn’t seem as though he’s suffering any real loss. There are still five of them at the table, after all.

From the bar, Jackson surveys the room. Just because he’s apart from his associates doesn’t mean he’s not watching their backs. The easiest way to end a career in crime is to let your guard down. This works to Kevin’s advantage, though: Jackson knows exactly who’s choosing his favourite songs without fail. (And without Neil’s input. Honestly, tonight is the first time he’s seen anyone in this team be good enough to deserve their high stakes task.)

“Romero’s on the border of chatty drunk. See if you can get him to drink faster,” Neil advises Andrew. Andrew finally seems to have gotten the hang of the game and has almost mastered a poker face, so in this round he comes second - but still loses the last of his coins to Romero with a risky gamble at the end of the game.

“Shit,” Andrew says when Romero asks if he wants to keep playing. “I’m out of cash.”

“Pity,” Romero says, not making any attempt to conceal the smirk that suggests he is anything but sympathetic.

Andrew frowns, considering, then says, “Tell you what. I buy you a drink - whatever you want - to cover my buy in.” Romero looks like he’s going to shake his head, happy enough to continue squeezing money out of the lackeys who wouldn’t dare win against him, but Andrew adds, “I’m about to break my losing streak, I can feel it.”

It’s just the hint of desperation any shark would be powerless to refuse. Romero nods, and sends Andrew to the bar for a Scotch that costs far more than the $5 buy-in they’ve settled on.

Andrew plays cautiously, and the game takes a while. He still loses, but he’s able to squeeze the money he needs to continue playing from the others at the table, just barely. Again, he says he’s feeling lucky.

Jackson has made his way over to Kevin, who’s talking about some old band he saw in concert before their guitarist died. Jackson is in awe, no longer paying attention to the rest of the bar, except for a few cursory glances that do not allow him to keep tally of how many drinks Romero’s had in the past hour.

Neil can see Andrew’s eyes sharpen, just barely, through the window, and he’s sure Andrew’s going to win this game. It takes a few rounds for Neil to realise that every hand he loses is intentional: he never picks up a pile with more than ten cards. Either the fates have blessed him with the luck he’s been asking for all night, or he’s counting cards.

When Andrew wins, Romero frowns for half a second before he remembers to be happy for his new friend. Andrew lets out an actual cheer, and his face lights up in a smile that Neil would have sworn his face wouldn’t have been capable of.

“Romero isn’t the best loser. See if you can direct him to do something else - he probably won’t want to play now he knows losing is a possibility, anyway,” Neil says to Andrew.

“Well done on breaking the losing streak,” Romero says smoothly, and Neil almost can’t hear the vicious tone to his voice, it’s layered so well. He only knows from experience and the apprehension that accompanies it. “Care to bet it isn’t a fluke?”

“I think I’ve used up my luck for the night,” Andrew says on a laugh, and gestures to the others at the table. “And I think we’ve squeezed their wallets dry. It was fun playing with you, though.” He starts to stand.

“Aw, come on. You’re not leaving so soon, are you?” Romero says, holding a hand out.

Andrew shrugs apologetically. “My partner will be pissed enough at the drinks I’ve bought tonight. If I spend any more, I’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week.”

The lines are straight from countless movies, but Romero’s perception of the world is a made-for-TV crime film anyway. He nods understandingly. “Come on, I’ll buy you one more for the road.” Andrew hesitates, and Romero adds, “To celebrate.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Andrew says, and lets Romero lead him back to the bar.

The guys left at Romero’s vacated table look between themselves, as if suddenly realising they’re on their own and now need to find a sensible way to occupy themselves. Neil doesn’t know their names, and so doesn’t have a clue what they’ll decide to do. If Neil’s lucky - which he never is - and if they’re just a touch dumb - which Nathan’s men rarely are - then they’ll decide to just continue drinking or playing cards. Otherwise, they’ll try to do something sensible.

Unfortunately, they’re just sensible enough that they decide to patrol around the bar, probably just to seem busy rather than to scout for any real threats, but just the same - Neil’s unmarked white van in the parking lot is suspicious as hell.

Neil takes action, swinging out of the van and popping open the hood. Thankfully, the van’s in as bad condition as it looks: everything’s covered in dust. He coughs just as the two lackeys leave the bar.

“Hey,” Neil calls to them. “Either of you guys got a toolbox? Or… any idea what the fuck is wrong with my van?”

“I can have a look,” the taller one says, walking over. The other one looks around, reluctant to shirk his duty but more reluctant to separate himself from his partner, and follows. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Neil says, frowning down at the hood. “There might not be anything. It was just making some weird noises and if the van breaks down before I return it tomorrow, my ass is on the line.”

The lackeys nod sympathetically, familiar with jobs that mean your head is constantly on the chopping block for things that can’t possibly be your fault. “It’d help if they gave you a van that had a check-up in the past century.”

Neil snorts, “Not fuckin’ likely.”

“Right,” the shorter guy agrees.

“Do you have a rag, at least? We’ll be better able to see what’s going on if we clear it off.”

“Oh, yeah,” Neil says. “I’ll get a flashlight too.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No, thank you. I’m sure you’ve got better places to be than in a parking lot at midnight fixing some random guy’s van.”

Neil jumps in the back of the van, and checks on Andrew and Kevin for as long as he dares. Andrew’s convinced Romero to buy them both drinks, and they’re somehow talking about their jobs.

It’s unbelievable that Kevin didn’t want Andrew in the field. He lies more naturally than Neil does.

Kevin looks pained, but he’s managing to continue conversation with Jackson. That’s not a particularly difficult task, though, since now Jackson is leading the conversation. He hasn’t even had any alcohol.

Neil swings back out with a rag and starts wiping the machinery down hesitantly until one of the other guys offers to do it for him. Neil takes a step back so he can keep an eye on the inside of the bar to at least check if something’s going wrong inside. Maybe. If he’s not too busy putting out fires here.

It’s all he can do to keep from tapping his foot, though. Boredom is one thing when he’s able to talk to Andrew or Kevin - even if he hasn’t been, for the most part - but feeling as though he can do nothing to directly help the mission is another. As much as he plays up hating his work here, he wants to get Nathan’s men locked away more than the FBI does. And further, it actually feels kind of good to be on the right side of the law for once. He needs this to work out.

Thankfully, it only takes a couple of minutes to wipe down the machinery and suggest he starts the engine to see if that helps. Unsurprisingly, when the engine starts, there’s no weird noise. Neil breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, you’ve just saved my ass.”

“No big deal,” they wave it off, and head back inside after closing the hood. They don’t look back, but to be safe, Neil moves the van. “Van’s behind the bar now,” he tells the others as he settles back in front of the monitor.

Andrew’s venting about low pay and hard work, and doesn’t even flinch in his monologue at Neil’s voice. In response, Romero has almost no choice but to start bragging. He’s always taken great pride in his work, for whatever reason; being Nathan’s lackey comes with a great risk for mediocre pay.

“Sounds like you’re in the wrong business, my friend,” Romero chuckles.

“Well, any jobs going? I’m not picky, and if you can afford to play cards and buy strangers drinks, your job clearly pays more than mine does.”

“We don’t recruit traditionally,” Romero says, every word picked unbearably carefully. “You have to be in the business and hope we notice you.”

“Okay, Batman. You don’t want to share your trade secrets, I get it,” Andrew rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that,” Romero assures him, and looks around the bar to see Jackson still talking to Kevin. “Look, what I do isn’t exactly, you know, legal.”

Andrew locks eye contact with him for a second before he snorts. “That’s what you’re so secretive about? You ever work in a factory? Any minimum wage job? Man, I don’t think any job is one hundred percent legal anymore.” He sips his beer, then mutters, “At least, none that’d take me.”

Reassured, Romero nods, “You may have a point there.” He takes a swig of his drink, apparently thinking, before he says, “If you’re serious, I can get you in on a small job. It won’t pay the big bucks, but it’s a start and it’s low risk.”

Andrew widens his eyes, “Dude, really? That’d be fucking incredible.”

Romero smiles widely. “Yeah, of course. We can always use a spare pair of hands, especially if the person those hands belong to can keep a secret.” He tries and fails to wink. It looks at once painful and stupid as all hell.

“Yeah, of course,” Andrew nods emphatically.

They finish hammering out the details - Andrew says he can work weekends or the odd evening around his current job until he proves himself, so they agree to meet on Sunday - and Romero writes the address of a warehouse down on a napkin which Andrew stuffs into his pocket.

“Success,” Neil says to Kevin, whose shoulders relax slightly in response. “You can back out in a little while, if Romero doesn’t come fetch Jackson from you.”

Andrew enters the van, and any trace of tipsiness is long gone from his stance. Neil isn’t exactly surprised by that; Andrew may have drunk a fair amount, but he doesn’t seem even remotely the type to compromise control over himself on a job.

“You’re good at cards,” Neil says, because that’s the maximum compliment he can force himself to give to someone on the team he is forced to work for.

Andrew just nods and sits down in the seat next to Neil, his eyes fixing immediately on Kevin. Kevin looks just glassy-eyed enough that his lack of engagement in his conversation with Jackson is excusable. “How much did you have to pay Kevin to get him to let you wrinkle his shirt?”

Neil snorts, but doesn’t reply. A part of him realises that’s Andrew’s attempt at returning a compliment.

Romero isn’t drunk, but he is definitely tipsy, which Jackson can deduce from even just his cursory glance. “It was nice to meet you,” he excuses himself from Kevin, who reaches into his pockets, now empty of quarters, and goes to settle his tab.

Kevin stumbles a little to climb back into the van, and sighs as he sits down, immediately doing his shirt back up. He doesn’t look Neil in the eye as he says, “So did you get an address?”

Andrew hands over the napkin. “We have to get there before Sunday.”

Kevin nods, “I’ll coordinate with Wymack.” He hesitates, then grudgingly nods at the two of them. “Good job. That went… more smoothly than I expected our first operation to go.”

Neil smirks.


End file.
